Fus Ro Ta-Dah!
by FroggyFeet
Summary: Artan knew what he saw. The man saw what all Nords saw. A tail. He saw a thief, a disaster waiting to happen, a murderer and a swindler. He saw a problem, sitting like a vulture on top of all his other problems, waiting for the other problems to crush him, so the vulture-problem could eat his liver. They all saw it. And it never became okay. M!Khajiit Dragonborn.
1. Bound

Garma was sat rather happily on the cart, eyes watching the clouds. The wagon was full with Nords, and even an Imperial. He ignored them. He watched the clouds. He even ignored when they started talking about Stormcloaks, and missions, and Nord this and Nord that. He tried especially to zone that part of the conversation out. He doubted the others would take his opinion very well.

He sighed and lifted his bound hands to look at them, ignoring the squirming thief sat across from him.

Somehow, he had gotten arrested. They had told him he was a Stormcloak, and he would be slaughtered along with Ulfric and his fanboys. He was on the run from the Alik'r. There was a hilarious amount of money on his head, and these buffoons were arresting him for joining in a rebellion. In a country he had never been to before the day before yesterday. He tried reasoning with them. Why would someone like him side with the Stormcloaks? Seriously? Garma simply glanced at the blonde Nord still gibbering away about Nord land. He dearly wanted to shove a very Nordic sword up the man's ass. But hell. The creepy bastard would probably brag about it.

When they passed the Thalmor, it was like watching a really small dog bark at a really big dog. The elf didn't even twitch in her saddle. It was almost funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Garma blinked, and didn't bother to tell Rogvir that the 'pointy-eared devil' didn't care what he said. That she was probably more concerned about the bodyguard that she was obviously porking, or maybe what wine she would drink with her steak later. Whether to make it out of their blood or not. She was just as bored by his rant as Garma was.

Even Ulfric looked like he was about to pass out.

Garma grinned.

The man wasn't asleep. He was trying to glare at him.

Garma purred and rolled his tail. The man mottled in anger, and looked as if he was about to explode. The khajiit meowed and made a show of wiping his face with his paws. Rogvir kicked him. Garma made goo-goo eyes at the Nord. It was like trying to melt glacier ice.

They were bundled off the wagon, and made to stand like slaves in front of a man clad in gold armour and an angry woman, a muscled man at her side with a wad of paper and a pained, constipated face. When the muscled man asked for a name, well. Garma didn't really know what to say. His name was renown. He would be on the block for sure. Or maybe worse. The Bull. The Eagle. Ugh. Melted or snapped open? No thanks. He did what he did best. He lied.

"Artan. Of Elsweyr."

"Well, _Artan_, we have no record of you. And you have no valid permits allowing you into Skyrim. Captain, what should we do? He isn't on the list to be executed."

The woman looked at the poor man like a dog looked at a tasty bone. "Send him to the block."

"But-"

"Did I stutter, Hadvar?"

The muscle man swallowed the retort. "Follow the captain, prisoner."

For a wild second, Artan had almost believed he had got out of it.

He still had hopes when he was pressed against the headman's block.

Who knew a ten tonne lizard would save the day?

Well. When the dust settled, it wasn't in any way shape or form of what Artan expected. Hadvar, the constipated scribe, cut his binds, gave him some armour, and told him to get his wiggle on. Before giving Artan a sword.

"I'm a wanted criminal, and you're giving me a sword."

Hadvar smiled tightly, "you won't kill me. You haven't got it in your eyes, Artan."

The khajiit smiled back.

Hadvar led him through a small door, but stopped dead and glared grimly into the adjoining room. Artan didn't have to look. Hadvar didn't have to turn to know the khajiit was grinning from ear to ear. The two Stormcloaks were pacing the room, searching their fallen comrade, saying quiet prayers, comforting each other that he was in Sovengarde now.

"Stormcloaks, maybe we can reason with them."

Artan purred back, "I don't think dumb and dumber over there are going to bend over long enough for you to hack their heads off. You might have to throw a sovereign on the floor. Distract them you know. I hear all you Imperials like killing a man while he's down."

Hadvar gave him a pointed look. "I'd smack you in the mouth for that, Khajiit, but I don't know where it's been."

"Ouch. Pulling a race card."

"Just let me talk to them."

"Shouldn't you be all about 'squashing the rebellion' and upholding the law?"

"The Nords are our brothers, misguided, but brothers none the less."

"Ever heard of the book of Aedra and Daedra? And their story of Abel and Cain?"

"No…?"

"Then you won't get it. Continue."

"Thank you."

Hadvar pulled the chain, and the metal grille separating the room and hallway disappeared into the ceiling. Stepping in, he was greeted by a big, burly Nord with his sister-daughter. "What? You give in to those pointy-ears and now start messing with the animals too? Is anything sacred to you people?"

"There is a dragon outside. We need to-"

"No, I tell you what we need to do," Sister-daughter growled, hefting her axe," get mamma a new fur rug for the living room."

Artan bristled, "I don't think she understands what I am. You, big man, tell your pet that if she comes any closer, it won't be _my_ pelt warming her mother's toes in winter."

"As if vermin like you could do much harm. You have barely evolved thumbs, _filth_. Remember your place."

"Oh I remember my place, _Nord_," the khajiit growled, "Standing over your putrefying corpse and peeing over that **monstrous **_**beard**_."

Artan didn't understand how it had escalated into full blown warfare, but he never understood much when the adrenaline kicked in. He just felt his limbs moving, the air becoming warmer, the bodies colliding. If he could have betted the fight would get ugly, he would have been one rich fat cat. Fuck cream, he would be _minted_. What he didn't expect, was Hadvar's capability with a blade. Artan guessed it was to do with his extended exposure to so many men.

"Well done, Khajiit. You really held your own."

"What can I say? In some places, I'm considered a sword **master**."

Hadvar didn't ask why he was grinning while he said that.

Well.

The small, brown haired woman stuck another plate of potatoes under Artan's nose, ladled with sweet meat, some kind of strange turnip and what looked to be tiny orange logs tucked underneath. However strange this human ritual was, he politely ate, thanked the woman, and listened to Hadvar tell his uncle the story of their escape. He knew well that fucking with a mans wife led to misery, despair and ultimately castration. It was a wide held belief in Hammerfell.

One he planned not to learn from experience.

But what was just as surprising was how Hadvar called him by his name, and ultimately didn't seem to be a total ass. He actually seemed to be a nice guy. Even suggested Artan join the force. Artan had laughed, brushed the comment aside but it never really left his mind. Only when sat in the pub, ale in hand, ignoring all the stares and some lean blonde wandered into his vision, did the thought really leave. "Hey, can you do me a favour?"

Artan coughed, "Look man, I know you might've heard a few quirky stories about Khajiit, but trust me, not every one of us can-"

"Oh no! I don't want _that_! I wanted you to deliver this letter for me!"

"Ahhh that's okay then. Who's it for?"

"A woman, Camilla. She lives-"

"A bonny little lass? I didn't have you pegged for that sort of thing kid, honestly. I figured you the type for diapers and maybe a wooden axe to hammer away at the bars of your crib."

The blonde gave him the same, ridiculous glare that Hadvar gave him. "She is funny, wonderful and the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. But this damn elf wants her too! He shows up at her house, spewing his lies about me, making her lose interest. I need you to give her this letter, tell her it's from him. She will come running back, regretting she ever laid eyes on him."

"This sounds pretty sneaky kid. Shouldn't you just put on some armour and go kill a dragon? Win fair lady's heart the same way the dumb or the ugly do?"

Sven scoffed, "I was thinking of asking you the same thing."

"Oooo. That really hurt my heart; got right in there! What's to say I won't just tell her it's from you?"

"You only just strolled into town. You're obviously broke; you had to dance for that ale. You can lodge at mine until you're back on you're feet."

"I need a few more ales before that, sunshine."

The Nord grimaced, "Just take her the letter so I don't have to talk to you anymore."

"Throw in another ale and you've got a deal."

"Fine."

Three days later, and after scrubbing himself raw in the nearby river, Artan got back to Camilla's house. Well, shop. She shared the quarters with her brother, and had asked him with her big brown eyes to go get some stupid claw back. So, Artan did what he always did. He talked to Faendal, and then Camilla. Then he decided who he hated the least. Then he told Faendal, the tricksty elf that tried to 'steal' Camilla from Sven, about his employment as a local postman. The elf practically had kittens when he realised how close he was to being canned by the woman, and gave Artan a new letter to give to her. She almost broke Sven's nose, Faendal decided to follow Artan into the nearby Barrow, and the rest was gravy.

"I am never following you ever again."

"That's fine with me, man. It did get a bit hairy in there. Which reminds me, have fun with our dear little Cammy."

"What…?"

"I'm just happy for you two love birds, that's all."

"I would love to believe that, friend, but you're grin is rather worrying."

"This is just my face. You should always listen to your mother, especially when she talks about wind."

Whiterun was cleaner than he expected. When the smithy asked him to tell the Jarl, Balgruuf, about the dragon, well he couldn't say no. It would be rude. And the smith had biceps that could crush a frost spider's thorax. It was smart and polite to say yes, oh god yes.

If he knew what would happen, he would have run the other fucking way, planned a route to Solitude and thrown himself at Tullius' feet begging a quick death.

"My Thane, going into that cave is a bad idea. The tracks leading in are bear tracks, and we are not equipped to deal with them right now."

"Who's the Thane?"

"You are, my Thane."

"Then we are going hunting. Daddy needs a new coat."

"As you wish, my Thane."

"You just stood there and watched! That thing was ready to claw my guts out! If I hadn't stabbed it in the paw and gouged its eye out then I'd be dead!"

"You never asked me to attack, my thane."

"How did you become a housecarl again? I can't remember the story you told me. Doesn't it co-inside with that story of how you got those greaves, the ones that cover your knees too? Cause they look pretty damn new."

"I was going to ask a similar story about your new leathers my lord. That back-plate looks very fresh. I guess it must have been worn out rather quickly, considering your character."

"You Nords always come back with the same shit. I guess that's what you get for bending over _before_ getting on your knees."

"Speaking from _experience_, Master Thane?"

"I bet that's what you had to say to the Steward to get this job. What did he tell you? That it was like milking a cow? Divine knows you have the hands for it. Must be all that backwater village hick blood in you, girl."

"What's the matter Thane? Was your litter tray not cleaned out to perfection?"

"You should know, we both know who has to scoop my poop around here."

"Aye, that we do Thane."

"You know what? You're not half bad."

"Neither are you, Thane."

"When we get to Windhelm, I'll buy you an Ale."

"You're charity astounds me."

"You should be happy you're getting that much. You only got crusty bread for your labour back when you stood on street corners."

"I remember. It's all your mother could afford."

"Ouch."

"Kill her for me. Here's the contract. I'll pay you when you get back. Thank you, again."

He was practically thrown onto the street after that, the snow cascading down on his darkened form, still processing what the fuck that was. The whispers of Windhelm said that the Arentino boy was dabbling in the dark arts, and to be honest, he believed them. Artan expected black magic and an immense pay check when he told the rickety old witchdoctors holed up in the college about it. Instead? He got a crazy boy with authority issues giving him an assassination contract to kill a pensioner. Lydia was in the pub, sleeping off the spell that a wandering enemy mage put on her. Artan had to drive an axe through his head to stop the leeching spell, before carrying the exhausted housecarl to the nearest civilisation; Windhelm. At first, he had to explain that he hadn't done her in, and that he was trying to save her. Only the town's priestess stopped the angry mob. "He has honesty in his heart, and this girl is in dire need of rest. Let them through."

Artan nearly snogged the crazy old raisin.

The city was a pallid, angry ghost of what the Stormcloaks in the other cities said about it. They called it a haven, a safe place full of beer, wenches, and ultimately freedom. Artan had only talked to three people, and already he wanted to join the Imperials, if only to put their leader's head on a pike, body still attached. They oppressed their dark elves to the point of throwing them all in run down slums on the edge of the city, and that was only because they were borderline humanoid. The Argonians had been thrown on the very edge of the river, and disallowed entry into the city. The only exception was a yellow ticket, allowing them to enter the market once a week to get fresh food.

The reptilians seemed happy, enough.

The dark elves were torn.

But that woman looked pretty much dead over it.

She was laying on her back, naked on a tombstone in the graveyard, a set of guards bumbling nearby, the rickety old priestess wandering around the body waving her voodoo-stick. Only the old man did anything special. He tore off his goat hide cloak and covered the poor young woman, giving her some decency in death. Artan couldn't help himself. The older man looked like he had eaten glass, shamelessly crying about the woman on the floor. Artan would have guessed that he was close to her. Maybe like a father to her. Maybe lost his own kids in the war. Now his only happiness was dead, ripped open by some nut job called the 'Butcher's handiwork.

"Do you need anyone to help find the fuckwad?"

He had come to a dead end at Hjerim, and sent Lydia back to Dragons reach to recuperate some more. Nords might be frighteningly rigid with cold, but it didn't make them invincible. Artan had left for Riften the next day. The Arentino boy had promised him an heirloom, an old Nordic one. In this day, when the Nords had most of their heritage taken by Thalmor, well, anything to remind them of Grand-pappy and the good old days was worth a Mammoth's weight in gold.

The stink pervaded the city.

As did its rotten guards.

"Pay the tax, or you might as well turn tail, cat."

"We both know that I won't pay you. We both also know that this tax is a load of crap. We also know that I will skin your hide and use it as a nice winter coat while I roast your ass over a crackly, peaceful fire. As for your friend here, well. I guess my vampire friend Mozarth would like a nice bottle of Nord for his birthday." Artan leant in a little closer and whispered, "He does like them a bit chubby. More 'cushion for the pushing' he says. I don't know what he means, but maybe you could tell me. If he doesn't kill you. But if I were you, I'd be hoping to Ysgrmirr that he kills you."

"Just go inside."

"Thank you. It's so good to see such helpful guards."

The old woman was asking for it.

At first, Artan got a bitter taste at the thought of battering an old woman to death in her own orphanage. Until he watched her with the kids. How she made sure to not bruise their faces, and made them wear long sleeves. He guessed he was going to Hell when he died. Two wrongs don't make a right. Murder wasn't right. Even if it was to free a bunch of parentless children, all of them wanting something stable to cling to in the days when they still believed in the bug bear and the monster under the bed. Instead they got a cruel woman who took the frustration she had with her own life out on the children she was meant to protect.

His claws were bloody, but it didn't matter much. He wiped them on her dress, straightened his tunic, and walked out with a spring in his step. The assistant's screams brought the hounds of hell down on the tiny orphanage, but Artan was already in the pub, enjoying a pint with a mouthy magician, who got quite riled when Artan asked if he could make flowers come out of his sleeves.

When he first got there, he wondered what kind of crazy people would live in old ruins on top of a crypt; _full of inventions that killed on sight_. And the he understood it. They were Nords. Mostly. He took a step into the stone city, and to be honest, he expected bloody cutthroats.

The market was tiny, set up right by the front gates, expecting the travellers to wander in and coo at their wares. Maybe be too tired to haggle for a deal. If they hadn't, Artan might not have saved her life. The man was shifty, and the khajiit automatically had him pegged. Artan slunk forwards, ignoring Marcurio's gibbering. The mage was intelligent, and downright brilliant. But he could talk the pants off an Orc, and Artan had to use a muffle spell on his follower more than once to get some peace. At least Lydia knew when to shut up.

In this instance, his gibbering helped.

"FOR THE FORSWORN!"

The man sprung, and Artan pounced.

The guards were on them in an instant, seeing the man jump at the shopper, just being too slow to intercept him. Artan drove Valdr's very lucky dagger into his armpit, and he slumped. Marcurio looked like he was about to keel over with shock, but he held himself a little straighter after that.

"So, care to tell me why I had to do that?" Artan practically snarled at the nearest guard, already shepherding people away from the corpse.

"Move on. This is none of your business, outsider."

"So I save one of your citizens from a crazed-"

"Move. On."

Artan frowned when Marcurio started manoeuvring him down a side street, eyes boring holes into the guard's face the whole trip, until the walls of the city hid him from view. "What a heartless troll. He didn't even check on that woman."

"If you think that's bad, then you're going to _love_ it here."

The two turned, and spotted the blonde in time to see him jam a wad of paper into Artan's hand. "You dropped this."

The khajiit's eyes lidded, brow rising in scepticism. "Oh did I?"

The boy shrugged, "Just being a good citizen, stranger."

After he loped off, Artan looked to Marcurio, "Do all you humans act so… weird?"

"Just don't do anyone any favours, unless they are a Jarl or a very beautiful woman with small hands."

"Why?"

"Just. Don't."

The halls were beautiful. The warm glow of gold was everywhere, but it did nothing to stop the shivers of chill creep down Artan's back. This place smelt old, musky like beer and thick with burning wood. It also had a resident Thalmor. The thing was staring at him, emerald eyes analysing him, as cold as the gold around them. "I bet I can warm up that ice queen."

"What are you talking about, creature?"

"Nothing. I am Artan. I'm guessing you're a new face around here."

"Ondolemar. Proud Altmer, the saviours of Mer. And no, I do not come from such a parasitic background as these cretins do. And what, pray tell, are you doing here?"

"Sight-seeing, just like you."

"I am no tourist, cat. I am here to keep these humans in line."

"I'm glad a fellow non-human can understand that these brats need some discipline."

"We are not fellows."

"What happened to the natural Altmer courtesy? You might be an amazing specimen of elvish lineage, but there's no reason to get all up in my grill about it. I thought that Altmer were so smart, they didn't have to go pronouncing their superiority all the time. It would just be universally known."

"Don't be sarcastic. It's asinine."

"I didn't hear 'his highness says.'"

The frosty elf actually smiled.

"You might be what I need, cat."

"I hate it when people say that."

"Hah. I am investigating a Nord in the city who is still worshiping Talos. The man does not understand the words 'banned' or 'illegal.' The Jarl's men are being rather, watery about his arrest, and just punishment. They want proof. Get me proof. And I will consider you a higher life form than the amoebae that forms the general masses."

"How could I ever skip such an opportunity?"

"You jest now, but I bet you will be coming back with that proof in the morning."

"If I had it my way elf, you would be nursing a wound and walking like a duck in the morning."

"I do not understand, but I guess it to be more drivel. Off with you."

The khajiit swept up the short walk to the jarl, Marcurio at his back practically hyperventilating behind him. "Thank Talos that he didn't understand you." Artan whispered back, "I do that every day."

"Who are you?"

"Artan, my Jarl."

"What are you doing, interrupting my court like this?"

"I am the answer to all your problems."

"Oh, how so?"

The cat grinned, "I came here to deal with your savage little problem. You take issue with the crazy people in the hills. And I want to help you."

The jarl looked at him, really looked. Artan knew what he saw. The man saw what all Nords saw. A tail. He saw a thief, a disaster waiting to happen, a murderer and a swindler. He saw a problem, sitting like a vulture on top of all his other problems, waiting for the other problems to crush him, so the vulture-problem could eat his liver. They all saw it. And it never became okay.

"I hate sellswords."

Artan almost spat at the man, "I don't want your money."

The housecarl at the Jarl's side almost blew a vein at the impudence. "I don't need your silver. I do fine when it comes to paying my way. I'm doing this so that fiasco in the market never happens again. A woman who can't shop in the city market because she's scared of getting killed over a cabbage? It's disgusting. And since your guards are a bit slow on the uptake, I will just have to step in. AGAIN."

"You are the one who saved Margaret in the market."

"Give me a destination and I'll get the job done."

"Red Eagle Redoubt."

"See you in a few days, Jarl."

"That remains to be seen."

Artan was fully intending to do a walk out, but his eye caught something shiny in one of the small alcoves of the throne room. He was standing there, silent as a sabre tooth while it watched prey from the grass. His armour was what caught Artan's eye, shining silver in amongst all the gold and finery. His boots were leathery, old and scratched from what looked to be many battles, but still in good order. As was the rest of his attire, prim and proper, with the salty undercut of something else to rat him out as different in the throne room. His mouth was a set, pink line, almost marred by the ghastly silver scar that blinded his right eye. Only the other stark blue eye gave him away.

Artan snapped his trance and walked out, Marcurio at his heel. The magician was gibbering again, about forsworn being strong and how were they going to destroy a camp, but Artan had stopped by the Thalmor again. "Who is in that throne room?"

"The Jarl, his elderly uncle, and the woman was his housecarl."

"What about the blonde Nord. He looked like he could bite the head off a goat."

"That's Argis. The Bulwark. He's in line to be the Housecarl of the cities new thane. The Jarl just can't find a useful warrior in the dawdling fools he recruits to guard his gates to make the new Thane."

Artan clapped the elf on the back, ignoring the grimace of distaste.

"I am going to find you so much proof that you won't know whether to use the Orsimer burn or the Imperial titty-twister!"


	2. Pussycat

It was well past midnight, the moons watery tendrils choking, smothering the crisp, blackened trees chalked up into the sky. The grass was almost black, as was the water that clung to it, almost like a drunken love affair between the strange, shifting marsh and the blazing shoal of grasses that speckled the land mass around –and in- Morthal.

Artan himself was a rather sorry sight.

The ghostly apparition looked much better, in her pearly gown, pale face, and unmistakeably dead aroma of crushed tulips and wet mud. She was tiny, a good half of his size, and as she whimpered and pleaded, Artan found himself almost ready to cry. Lydia was at his back, bristled like one of those prickly bushes that seemed to love growing here, and he knew they were good to go. The ghost girl disappeared, and they began the dreary, incredibly depressing game of hide and seek.

Artan let Lydia kill the vampire.

She was pale, dark haired, cropped short around her sharp, angular face. It reminded him detachedly of a snake, predator, devourer. The next forty-eight hours were draining, if he was honest. He just wanted to go back to Markarth, demand his Thaneship, take his new housecarl, fuck him, and go about his business like he was supposed to; free and full of humour. Usually he didn't get like this.

Other people always wanted something, and it was always something stupid, or gross, or simply physically ill-recommended. Usually, he would get the good stuff, and dodge the weird. Especially after that Sanguine fiasco. Lydia quirked an eyebrow at his shiver, but he motioned for her to carry on burying the girl's coffin. The ice princess was quite observant, and usually Artan thanked any Daedra, Aedra or deity for that. But when he's thinking about the beast with two backs, not the best quality for her to have. He shivered again.

He guessed he was a weirdo.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it, because he really did. He just didn't like what you usually had to do to get to that point. Sharing thoughts, feelings, ect. Give him smoke and dagger any day. Getting naked with someone needed either a lot of trust or a lot of self-confidence. Either you trusted them enough not to kill you while you slept, or you had to have the confidence in yourself to be able to survive such an encounter. He survived _that_ encounter many times. Other people were not to be trusted. They are only trustworthy when belly-up in a ravine.

J'zargo taught him that much.

The other feline was brilliant, tactical, and completely dependable to run the other fucking way when a Dwemer automation starts running at you.

Artan grimaced. He hated the idea of talking about himself. About his life. About his thoughts. He talked bullshit. It was another mask. If people think you're an ass, they will most likely believe you misplaced most morals, and most regular feelings too. Such as feeling hurt, getting sad, falling in love. It is assumed that these asses don't feel, and therefore questions that make him feel uncomfortable are not asked.

It creates a whole set of other problems, but Artan takes them.

Rather that than the alternative.

Artan drives a stake through the chest of the thrall, rather disgusted with the amount of blood that surges from the man's violated sternum. He figured stakes as a fun alternative to his regular war hammer, and well. It was. Got his head out of the clouds, thinking about the sharp silhouette in the Markarth throne-room. Hands-on. Messy. No time to think about no big, hulking man.

Lydia and that fool was at his side, and bluntly, Artan was sure he would kill the stupid dirt-farmer. He was screaming, whining, and bringing every bloodsucker in the whole place down on their heads. Eventually, Artan put a muffle spell on his mouth, and the silence was beautiful. Lydia visibly relaxed.

The three snaked further into the cave system, crouched low, sneaking, stealing inside amongst the bones, the flesh, the pulpy innards of the feeding room. God. All these freaks needed was the blood. Why eat the person too? Artan grimaced. It just seemed like having a bottle of wine and eating the glass as well.

When they came to a fork, well, a ladder and a ground path, Artan chose the ladder.

And thanked Boethiah that the vampire Mozarth was on the lower level, sat at a lavish table of human remains, small goats-heads and what looked to be a plate of rather extraordinarily large carrots. Artan got out his bow, and with a deep steady breath, took out the thrall on the balcony above his head. There wasn't even a twitch from the master vampire, picking at his plate of kidneys as if they were small unremarkable apple pies.

Artan killed three more before the alarm sounded.

The stupid dirt-farmer cried and fell to his knees during the fight, Lydia and Artan having to keep the fool between them, backs together, faces to the vampires, trying to keep him out of the firing line.

A short, stumpy vampire lashed out with that red magic, zapping Artan's leg, sucking it dry. The cat threw his warhammer. It crushed the vampire's throat, collarbone and some of his chest, the energy returning to Artan's leg, and the cat taking full advantage of it. Drawing both of the swords lashed to his thighs, he turned on Lydia's assailant, driving the golden blade through the thrall's gut with nail-through-thumb ease. The thrall at his back didn't have a chance. Lydia swung her battleaxe with a precision that made Artan rethink his witty banter with her. It floated over his head as he lunged; fully decapitating the fool trying to stab him in the back.

If this is what she did to vampires, imagine what she could do to him if he proper pissed her off.

The thought, unbidden, almost screwed him.

Mozarth had him by the other arm, the arm holding his mace, and in a flurry Artan was on his back, shrieking in that awful, vampire way, and the bloodied red aura engulfed everything in Artan's vision. Only one thing saved him.

"FUS ROH DAH."

When he first met the man, he didn't know what to think.

At first, when the Jarl told him the hold was to get a new thane, well. He didn't really think the hold needed it. They were imbedded into the mountainside, guarded by nature herself. They had repelled a few dragon attacks, and were far enough from Solitude and Windhelm that the battles didn't reach them. The only thing they had to contend with was the Forsworn, and the amount of sell-swords in the area kept them at enough of a distance.

They said he was the legendary Dovahkiin, which fought in the battle of Whiterun, who ran with the cannibals of Namira, that he was both daedric champion and daedra hunter, that he had one foot in the dark and the other in the light. That he was Thane in two other holds and that the crime rate had dropped to almost nothing during his ascension to the role. All bards folly. It had to be.

They still didn't need a thane, though.

Argis was disturbed from his reverie by a visitor to the Jarl's court, the recently ascended Archmage. The Bulwark simply took him apart, piece by piece. From the looks of him, he wasn't only gifted in magic. He held himself like a warrior, but he didn't have the build. He was lithe, like a runner. The feathery Archmage robes made him look birdlike, hood up and a strange bronze mask across his face.

But when he tugged it away, the court unanimously gasped.

Then the jarl stood, and opened his arms. The court bubbled with excitement, happy faces, and the usual. Argis was confused. A Khajiit? Why were they so happy to see a Khajjit as Archmage? Then he understood it, as Ondolemar clapped him on the shoulder, that this guy was the new thane. That it was this guy who put Faleen and that insufferable wizard together. That _he_ had wiped most of the Forsworn from the hills.

This scrawny clod was the new thane.

The new thane was relatively short, maybe 5'7. Well, he was short compared to Argis. The nord himself was 6'3. A kitten really, Argis knew he wouldn't last a week. The Khajiit storms in, all grins, smiles, jokes and swapping small talk with Faleen. He didn't have the backbone to be thane. Not here. It was a bone crushing city, built on the backs of slaves, on the backs of barbarians that the guards threw into jail, _Blood and Silver. _

He had to have been loaded to afford one of the bigger houses in Markarth, but how this airhead managed to get his paws on that kind of dough was a huge question mark. If you didn't believe the shady rumours about him. This couldn't be the same khajiit that did all the things that the courts praised him of. What they cursed him for.

Argis just had to ask, "Who are you?"

The cat-man smiled, "I'm Artan. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bulwark."

When the cat finally said the words, Argis was sat in the kitchen with a sweet roll a month from their first meeting.

"Follow me."

A day later, and they were up to their armpits in vampires. When one of them appeared at his flank, sword raised high, and the ugly red pulse of magic sapped his strength, forcing him to his knees, he cursed the damned cat to the gods. And then there was a yowl. Dumbass got himself kill-

The vampire hit the dirt with a black blur, and with a terrible shriek she was dead. The figure removed its hands from her hair, shaking fingers and claws free from the matted clumps atop the unnaturally floppy head, straightened and turned to Argis, tail flicking. Artan crouched by him, and suddenly his hands were glowing gold. Before the Nord could hiss out any expletives, he felt the pain in his side recede and the weakness in his legs fall away.

"Why?"

"I brought you here. It's only right to watch your back. Besides, you're my housecarl. Your duty is to protect me. I am your thane, so it is my duty to protect you, too," the cat smiled. Argis stared at him, and the khajiit laughed.

"Pick your jaw up, we still have more bloodsuckers to go!"

That was a few hours ago, and they were far from the pond-haven in which that particular coven called home. The cat was stripping a buck of its hide, humming some ridiculous tune about some warrior or other, and for some unbeknownst reason, Argis found it immensely irritating.

"Well, I think that went rather well."

"How?"

The cat scoffed, "we are alive, well, and have a set of awesome new robes to flog."

The Nord frowned, "fair point. But it shouldn't have got that tight in there. Aren't you Archmage? Couldn't you just incinerate them?"

The Thane seemed to fluff up, abashed, "Well, I sort of saved the college, and they elected me Archmage. I am actually a novice in magical endeavours."

The disapproval that melted off Argis was palpable, malleable. Artan could have made a waxen sculpture taller than himself if the stuff was material. The Nord crossed his arms, one ice blue, and one milky white eye staring at him over their meagre fire. "So we could have easily died today. And you are meant to be Thane?"

Artan bristled, "if you want I can rectify that for you, Mr. Bulwark. I might not be able to smoke your ass into charcoal but I can still kick the living-"

The roar was monumental. The landing almost deafened them. Argis attacked first, the cat was gone. The sword didn't even dent the dragon hide, and in one movement, the thing swung its tail, shattered Argis' shield against him, winding him, sending him flying, and the foot was crushing him. The blinding _oh fuck_ flashed through him, and in that terrible, mind-numbing movement where the dragon reared its head, its throat and chest expanded, and the flames licked around its dreadful maw, Argis knew he was going to die.

The dragon opened its mouth.

And howled.

The crack was loud, and Argis felt the toes around him loosen phenomenally, and as he watched the dragon flop to the ground, head landing heaving a few feet from his own boots, he took especial note of Artan, crouched low on the creature's head, battle-axe practically up to the hilt in the skull of the beast, tail twitching, eyes blazing, and completely awe-inspiring.

The cat straightened, and in a dreadful, twisting yank tore his weapon from the carcass of his kill, whipping his head aside to fling the blood from his eyes, before taking a gentle skip down from the dragon's head. With the head of his axe, he gently pried apart the claws holding Argis, and offered the other, free hand to the Bulwark. Shakily, stunned, completely bewildered, Argis took the hand, and allowed himself to be hauled upright.

"Next time, don't run at them head on. Weave, zig-zag, make a harder target. Knights always go for the straightforward approach, and it always gets them killed. So please," Artan patted a heavy shoulder, slightly bringing Argis back to earth, "be careful. I don't want to bury you too."

The Nord's ears perked, "Too?"

The feline soured, and returned to the fire.

"Too."

Watching Artan was an experience. That is being mild; astounding amounts of 'mild.'

The cat was an enigma, even three months on. They were still travelling, and Argis was intensely, utterly, and completely confused as to whether Artan was good or bad. One moment, the Nord was sure that Artan would never get into Paradise. And the next, he was all but assured that the cat was going somewhere nice in the next life. He did silly things, like kill and thieve and in one case run around near-naked in the neighbour's flowerbeds blind drunk. The next day he was running errands for the assistant in the temple of Mara, playing matchmaker for a farmer's daughter, and not forgetting his intervention between the court mage and Faleen, the Jarl's housecarl.

One moment he was giving oranges to starving children and the next he was sniping at a soldier from a pub window. Argis couldn't peg him, and doubted he every really would.

Even stranger, he was finding himself growing fond of the fluffy rat.

He checked his temperature, and it was normal.

Maybe he was going soft in his old age.

Or maybe, he wasn't the golem he always told himself he was.

Absently, the bulky Nord rubbed a thumb down the scalloped facial scar, the same one that claimed his sight. Artan looked to him, cocked his head, but the Nord shook his head in reply. Artan extended the stare, before shrugging, and motioning for Argis to stay seated. He called for more wine.

The next few moments were a blur, but when he blinked, the lanky elf was trussed up on the table, hog-tied with his own scarf. Artan had his thin, dark hand at the elf's throat, murmuring quiet, almost sweetly in the shivering creature's ear, and a quiet exchange was made. Argis didn't move throughout the exchange, even if a few barmaids shrieked and the innkeeper looked ready to start kicking them out. He had grown rather use to people attacking his Thane, and Artan rebuking attacks before Argis even registered danger. He attributed it to magic, but he wasn't certain. Artan was too good.

The cat kicked the elf to the floor, before looking to Argis.

"Looks like I have pissed off another official. Argis, if anything happens, it's been a good run."

The Nord snorted, "What?"

"I am glad that the Jarl picked you to be my housecarl. Even if you are moodier than Lydia, you are a good man. And I am pretty damn happy I met you. Before you, my plan was to destroy the Nordic people, and maybe keep Lydia as a pet. But you have made me rethink that completely. If any of the other Nords are a fraction of you, then I wouldn't have it in me to hurt them. You are loyal, and crazy, and by Talos do you have a set of balls. But if anything happens to me, I want you to take care of yourself. _Well_. Live till you're grey, and for the love of Talos, don't throw your life away for some asshole."

The cat eyed him, before he stood, yawned, and led the bewildered blonde out of the pub.

The peace was short lived.

The temple was dark, and to be honest, Argis was completely and utterly confused as to why they were here at all. A crazed man was suggesting there were traitors in the aristocracy. That there were men in the court who were throwing innocents into Cidnha mine. That they were political prisoners. He was disgusted. And appalled at this stupid little man. But Artan believed him. It was enough for Argis to hear the man out. It was enough to make Argis doubt the city he had lived in for the last decade.

"I have seen many bad apples. I wouldn't be surprised to find another rotten one here."

The sweet, cloying and ultimately stuffy smell of the incense was overbearing, and Argis could see Artan practically stomping down the slope to where they were meant to meet the man. Argis forgot what his name was. But Artan stopped, and motioned for the big man to hide. Argis was about to ask, but the cat put a finger to his mouth, and motioned again. The blonde growled, but complied.

The feline loped down the short slope down into the belly of the temple, and Argis understood when the guards popped out.

"You have been sniffing around too much, Khajiit. Thane or not. To the mine with you, murdering filth. Spilling blood in the home of Talos. You should be hung for this."

Another guard snickered, and Argis could only watch as the four of them escorted Artan away. The cat motioned for him to stay where he was, and he did as told. But it wasn't out of choice. The spell held him fast, bottling and corking that rage inside him, the searing, almost volcanic heat that was bubbling in his guts. His fingers twitched to his axe, and too late, he was barrelling up the stairs towards the entrance. It was much too late. Because Artan was already gone, and there was nothing he could do.

It wasn't his first time in prison. But it was his first time in such a ratty, disgusting place. He guessed it was because it stank of abused justice, forgotten heroes and a violated legal system. Might've been the intense body odour, decaying skeevers and human defecation. Could have very easily been either. He didn't know how justice smelt.

It had been three hours, and he had acquired four shivs, a bottle of skooma, a small sandstone dog sculpture that looked more like a duck, and what looked to be the remains of a small rodent. As well as making friends with who seemed to be one of the crazy cultists that he had made his entire fortune killing. It also seemed that the crazy cultists had crowned this guy their king. Artan didn't know whether to be impressed or terrified of their incredibly democratic hierarchy and voting systems.

It didn't matter much. Especially when the fool started leading him up the beaten path, through some old caverns and out into Markarth. And straight into the faces of the waiting authorities.

Corrupt, but authorative none the less.

A huge, hulking Forsworn leapt forwards, bowling three corrupt guards off their feet, his fellows hurtling in after him, and Artan skipped away from the fighting. Back pressed to the wall, he tried his dandiest to keep out of whatever tiff staggered his way. That is, until something grabbed his threadbare shirt and hauled him into the sky. For a moment, he thought maybe Namira had taken pity on him.

That is, until he was greeted by thick arms, a puff of blonde locks and his sword.

Then he realised that Lady Luck had blessed him instead.

"Come on, my Thane. Let's get back to the house and some food in you. You're making the twigs look like trees right now."

"But what about the Forsworn? They're escaping."

"The Guards will deal with them. And then the Jarl will deal with the traitors who have broken their vows to Lady Justice."

"You seem to have everything under control."

"I learnt from the best."

"Lydia is a brilliant tactician. And… oh lord the sun is bright today…"

"My Thane…?"

Artan fainted.

"Eat your eggs."

"But Argis-"

"I don't care. Eat them or I will make you eat them."

The cat pouted, and for a moment, the Bulwark debated on going a little easier on the cat. And then he figured that he escaped from a prison that had starved him for the better part of three months only two days ago. The determination came back, and he pushed the plate closer to Artan.

"What do I get for it?"

The Nord raised his eyebrows, looking like he had just found a three-headed unicorn that pooped gold and diamonds in his man-shed. "How about I don't hit you? That sound good?"

The cat pouted more, ears flickering down against his skull, eyes sparkling. It was a technique that made Queen Elisif melt, that stopped Lydia mid-rant, and thawed even Maven Black-Briar's icy stare. It even made a tiny, almost-buried part of Argis squeak with an equally miniscule hint of happiness.

But the cat didn't expect a rebuke, and not such a powerful one.

He looked alarmed as Argis' hand shot out, but the moment the fingers began pressing, massaging, he was already arching, shivering, _purring_. Argis would have pumped a fist in the air, a victory against the enigmatic Thane, but that would have been demeaning. He carried on scratching the cat behind the ears, down his neck, under his chin. The deep, throaty purring didn't stop, and the feline got so completely enthralled by the feeling that when Argis stopped, he clutched at the hand with both hands, sending a vehement, borderline monstrous glare at the Nord.

The blonde gave him a pointed look, "not until you finish your plate."

The cat soured, frowning as if the Bulwark had puked in his mouth.

"You are a monster."

"Monster, Housecarl. Potatoe, Potato."

"Argis, meet Lydia. She is my first, and took my Housecarl virginity a good year ago now. Be careful, she's like a wolf with a bear carcass."

"Better that than a kitten with a saucer of milk, my Thane."

"I happen to like milk. It's not my fault you prefer blood."

"You are such a pussycat."

"Trust me. I am not. I prefer sausages."

"You are such a vulgar shit sometimes, you know that?"

"Talos almighty are you _**blushing**_?"

Argis didn't bother to help the Thane trying to patch the bloodied nose, nor help him up off the floor. He rather figured the Thane deserved that one.

He had lost count of how long Artan had been his Thane. He had similarly lost count of how long ago the stupid infatuation started, too. Typical. Spend a little time with him, and as usual, the ridiculous critter had charmed him, the same way he had charmed the inexorable Lydia. The cat had actually made her smile, the last they were here. They were off to some witch nest or other. Argis just nodded politely, zoning out whatever the cat was saying, instead wondering how the silvery fur spread across his throat would feel. Whether his belly was soft and fluffy like real cat. He sighed, and tucked the ridiculous thoughts away. Artan was his Thane. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The crash almost shook the jars off the shelves.

He returned in a rush, carrying a bloodied lump in his arms and howling at the healers that followed him like sheep. Argis leapt to his feet, watching in shock as the thane swept all the things off the kitchen table with a deft tail, and placed the dripping mess on the surface. Then he swore and ordered the healers around the table and the glow started.

They stood and chanted for hours.

Eventually that bloated lump began to scream.

The day bled away into night, and eventually the screams turned to sobs, dry and cracked, and Argis watched as the healers filed out, passed out and puked up. Others always filed in, however, to replace them. Artan never left that room. His eyes were cold and brutal in his face, and every time his fur rippled and he dry heaved in the corner, he would bite out a roar and shake himself. Then he would straighten, down a potion or four, and go back to healing.

And eventually, when the morning sun rose and turned into a noonday blaze, the lump looked like a girl again. The healers slumped and rolled around on the floors, pale and drawn as if they had just run several miles with dragons up their asses.

Artan fell onto one of the stools littered through Vindrell Hall, eyes trained on the girl on the table. Then he huffed, once, and went to pick her up. Argis pushed his tired arms out of the way and picked her up, wandering out through the hall and out to where his own quarters were. The stupid Dovakiin had spent all his money on the rest of the house and had left a tiny nest of dry hay and a few jugs of wine as his own room. So Argis left Lydia in his bed, and simply closed the door on the way out.

"Now. You go to bed, Thane. I will see to the other healers."

"They have food. We sleep. Follow."

Artan simply grabbed a gauntlet and dragged the nord across the hall to his pit, and Argis was incredibly surprised to actually see a bed had been installed in the room. The wardrobes were still empty, and spiders still hung out in the corners. Still. The khajiit had thrown a rather haphazard sheet of fur over his bed instead of a blanket, and to be honest, Argis liked the concept.

Who wouldn't like soft fur compared to hemp?

The cat simply growled, and Argis felt the Thu'um wash over him. He was mildly surprised when his armour practically shuddered off him. The khajiit shoved him, and he landed square in the middle of the bed and for an instant, his brain did a back flip. That was before the dovahkiin yawned, stretched, flumped on the bed and passed out face down with his ass in the air.

Sexy.

Argis woke up to something warm on his chest, vibrating soothingly against him. The thing was fluffy, like his wonderful pet dog when he lived on the farm. It saved him from a bear, years ago. The thing had attacked him and his brother on a hunting trip, and when the bear turned on him after gutting his brother, the dog leapt between them. Somehow, the duo managed to kill the beast.

But this was softer. Leaner. It felt wonderful, all melted across him, keeping him warm. Then it yawned and stretched languidly against his side, mewling softly in his ear. Mewling.

He didn't want to believe it.

He cracked open an eye.

Yup.

They had fallen asleep with the door closed. There were two of them. In the middle of summer. With furs sprawled all over the floor and bed. Where the dovahkiin had kicked them off. With most of his clothes. And was now laid butt naked across Argis and a few of the furred blankets like a furry sex god.

And for a moment, all those ridiculous thoughts were real.

Legate Rikke could have fucking knocked.

The woman didn't even flinch. "Get your ass out of bed. We need you to stomp out a small camp of Stormcloaks. They have taken-"

"_Fus_."

The woman flew from the room, and for an instant, the furs shuddered. Then with a growled "_Ro_," the door slammed shut. Then Artan returned to snuggling into the warmth underneath him, and that was that.

"Ta-_Dah_!"

Three days.

Artan was bound by his vows to help the Legion, and Argis was bound by his vows to Artan. Seemed ridiculous, but sadly, such is life. They had sped to another meeting place, half a mile from another Stormcloak fort, the third this month, and got ready to start a siege. It was the last before they were to sweep Windhelm, and the air was palpable. But Artan wasn't looking at his soldiers, shivering in the dusty snow drifts. He was staring at Argis with those big green eyes.

"Are you okay with this?"

"Attacking a fort? We have done this three times already. I think I'm used to it."

"These men aren't bandits. They are Nords. Your brothers. Does that bother you? I will send you back to camp if you don't want to fight them."

The Bulwark simply blinked, stupidly at the fluffy rat, almost like a fish would gape. "You're asking this now? Seriously?" Artan nodded once, and Argis resisted the want to shove him in the snow bank. "You are my Thane. I may share a God with those men, but we do not share an ideal. The Thalmor banning Talos is an outrage, but civil war is not the answer. Ulfric must pay for his crimes, against Skyrim and against its people_. __**All**__ of its people_."

Artan seemed to shiver into alertness at that, before looking back towards the fort.

"And once again, I have Talos to thank for putting you here, Argis."

"No, you would have to thank my mother for that."

"Maybe over tea and a sweetroll."

"More like a beer and a horker steak."

Artan grinned from pointy ear to pointy ear, "I think I will love this woman."


	3. The Beginning

I think I might be the only one who fucking loves Argonians. Lol.

* * *

_We dream the dreams_  
_Now we will fight the fight_  
_We will defeat the other guys_

_And we'll lead the dreams_  
_Until they die inside_  
_We'll raise their kids_  
_And commandeer their wives_  
_We'll curse their gods_  
_And drink up all their wine_  
_We will defeat the other guys_

* * *

The fort had been a mess. Artan and Argis split up, each in one of the two squads of men attacking both sides of the fort. The archers were quick on their feet, taking out a few of the imperial soldiers streaming through the demolished barricades. Even Argis was hard pressed with the fluttering arrows, one almost catching him across the throat. That was, until Artan intervened. The lightning lit up the stone as if the sun had suddenly appeared, blinding most of the melee fighters and almost bringing the scuffle to a standstill. But the men rallied, and the battle raged on, even as the Archmage set the world on fire. It finished almost as quickly as it began, only the stragglers left.

Rikke actually cracked a smile when they were dismissed.

That had been yesterday.

But today, Artan was gone.

Gone.

Argis almost threw a hissy fit, worry creasing nearly every part of him. The Thane was an idiot, but he wasn't an asshole. He wouldn't have left Argis alone in Riften. Fort Dunstrad was a mental fight, but they had completely eradicated any Stormcloak threat in the area. They had only come here to rest. All of Artan's gear was still here, except his knives and the scraps of fur he used as armour. So Argis bunkered down, and waited. No matter how much it pissed him off.

* * *

The shack was cold, regardless of the soft yellow flames that bathed most of it. Artan came back to himself slowly, blearily taking in his surroundings. It didn't look good. The three people were on their knees, hands tied behind them, black sacks tucked over each head. They were shrieking, crying, and yelling. Well, mostly only the Nordic warrior on the far left was doing that, the old woman in the middle was growling out threats, hissing through what sounded like a gummy mouth. The khajiit on the far right was mostly silent, only once in a while suggesting pay offs, thin threats and trades for his life.

"Kind of pathetic, when you think about it."

Artan turned, and took note of the leather-clad woman sprawled across the wooden bureau at the back of the shack, legs dangling rather playfully over the edge.

"The kind of pathetic that the guards found Grelod in, if you think about it. She was soaked in her own shit too. But she was Ours, and you took her. That kind of thing is frowned upon among assassins, stealing kills. But you can repay your… inconsideration by completing a contract for me, in the Brotherhood's name instead of your own. You owe us, and by doing this, we will be even. One of these three people has a contract on their head. Pick them out. Perform the kill. That's it."

"Which one?"

The woman seemed to smile, "You figure it out."

The khajiit frowned, and stood rather shakily before turning back to the three hogtied captives. She was one of the Dark Brotherhood. She could probably kill him if he dared to attack her, even if he wanted to. The best option was to do what she said to the letter. Maybe she would spare him. And if not, he would-

"Where is my companion?"

"The blonde? He is safe, back in Riften where we found you. But shouldn't you really be focusing on the task at hand?"

Artan turned around again, looking at the rather pitiful lumps on the shack's moulding floorboards. He drew his knives from where they had been thrown on the floor, and advanced. He was quick, and made it as painless as he could, but when he turned back to the woman, she was sat leaning on her knees, propping her head up on her fists.

"You didn't know which one it was, so you killed them all?"

"It was only logical."

"Indeed." She regarded him for a moment, after that, but Artan showed her no discomfort, gave her no inch. She straightened, "The Brotherhood is a family, first and assassins second. You seem to have a hard time in regular work, with regular citizens. You wouldn't have murdered a woman like that if you were. I extend the olive branch to you, Artan. Our base is near Falkreath in the Pine forest, beneath the road. When you reach the Black Door, answer it's question with 'Silence, my Brother,' and you're in. Your new life is waiting for you kiddo. I'll see you at home." She gave him a small wave, and he walked out.

He didn't stop running until he was out of the marshlands.

Argis was sat on the bench in the Bee and Barb, Marcurio opposite him, ale in hand and sweet roll in the other. It had been three weeks, and no sign of the khajiit. Lydia hadn't seen him either, according to the letter she sent in reply. She said that the Thane disappeared sometimes, but he would be back. Just wait there. A small part of him thought he would be back at Markarth, but he figured to wait out the rest of the week here just in case.

* * *

When the door opened, he was used to the false alarms. It was never Artan, so he didn't bother looking up. When the weight settled on the chair next to him, and Marcurio started swearing, he knew he was wrong. He looked up. Artan looked as if he had passed through the intestinal tract of a dragon. His fur was matted, splotched and his clothes stuck to him with the mud and blood. "You motherfucker."

The cat tried a smile, but it was more of a grimace than anything.

"Where is the nearest bath and bed?"

"The room is the first one on the right, and the bath is out back."

The cat nodded, "Glad you're okay Argis. I thought… it doesn't matter."

"I'm okay? What about you? You disappeared!"

The feline shrugged, "I'll tell you about it another time, but lets just say I hope to never, ever piss that crazy bitch off again."

* * *

Artan never really explained where he went, or what had happened to him while he was gone. The Bulwark figured it to be a sore spot, so he let it drop. He was a housecarl; he had no right to demand anything of his Thane. So he kept quiet, and fell in line behind the khajiit, ignoring Marcurio's strange glances towards the cat's armoured back. He was used to the weird glances the Thane got, even if the subject himself didn't even notice them. He acted the same way around everyone, even the sleazebags. If he really thought about it, Argis had never really seen Artan lose his temper with citizens, always that calm, almost flippant mask.

Argis often wondered when it would break.

What kind of face was really under there? Or would it end up like a masquerade, just another mask? He shook the thought away. They were about to storm Windhelm. This wasn't the time for an epiphany.

The snow cascaded around them, not even tempering the fires that flooded the city. The night was black, but between the reflective snow and the searing flames, it became a sharp caricature of the place it used to be. Artan was stalking the streets, Bulwark and Marcurio prowling along behind him. He would have brought Lydia, if he didn't think she would cut him down to save Ulfric, that is. Instead, he was stuck with the talkative mage. And in some strange twist of fate, the mage seemed rather happy he was there.

Too happy.

Artan had seen that glint before, and it always ended badly. Especially when he was feeling weak. Argis was a distant dream, and well. Marcurio didn't give a shit about feelings or anything like that. He was competent with a blade, but Artan was confident he could neutralise any threat. It was tempting. Very tempting.

He pushed the thoughts away, and they carried on trudging through the snow, imperial soldiers flanking them on every side. The battle raged on for hours, and Artan lost count of how many fools died on his war hammer for a fool man with a fool dream. He almost smiled when a few Argonians and dark elves flooded from the cracks, swords, spears, bows in hand. The soldiers appreciated the extra help. It gave them a few extra inches, and that's what makes a war.

That what helps you win.

When they tried the front doors, well. The Stormcloaks were everywhere. And in an instantaneous brainwave, Artan decided. He clapped Argis on the shoulder, motioned to the keep, and grinned like a kitten would around a dead mouse. The Bulwark nodded.

* * *

"My Jarl, the Imperials have stormed the main square! We must evacuate the-"

"No! Stall them! When the men return from the patrols we can crush the ones inside our walls, and go on complete lock down. We will survive this."

"We are trying to stall them, but-"

"It's a bit late for that, sweetheart."

The two brutish Nords turned, and in a moment of pure, impossible, just couldn't fathom how to speak to the intruding Khajiit. It was sat in black and red armour on top of the long table, tight fitted, helmet-less with no visible weapons, but obviously imperial. They would never recruit a Khajiit. The creature smiled, eyes practically closing in barely contained glee.

"You know, before I became a Legionnaire and invaded your city, I had quite the repertoire."

"Hold your tongue, fleabag, or I'll tear it out," the bear-Nord growled, stepping forwards.

The cat prickled, "turn this into a race matter and I will use your carcass as a scratching post and your shattered skull as a litter tray. Talos knows I will be adding some much-needed flair to that empty-"

The sword sailed over his head, flung backwards across the table, almost completely parallel with the wooden surface. The bear-Nord growled, but the cat was already making the deathblow. It somersaulted backwards onto its hands, out of range of the sword, onto its feet, hands aglow. The lightning streaked out, and in an instant, Ulfric wasn't looking at his housecarl anymore. He was staring at the smoking, charred remains of a man that had spend two decades at his side. His housecarl slumped to the floor, and the cat had the audacity to speak.

"My Jarl, supper is served."

"Ulfric! Stop!"

The two turned to the doors, already open, Tullius storming in, Argis at his side, guards around them, and Lydia-

Pushing through all of them, yelling and screeching.

"Ulfric please! We cant fight the Thalmor if-"

"FUS."

Lydia flew. Argis was sprinting towards her, Tulius was yelling. Artan snapped.

The next moments were tumultuous, but he remembers drawing his sword, but he couldn't feel it in his hand anymore. He feels the cold stone under his back, but it turns warmer as he feels himself chill. Feels the sting at his throat, and the warmth seep out. The last thing that danced in front of his eyes was the silvery khajiit, tail waggling, eyes ablaze.

"Meow motherfucker."

* * *

"_The only strange thing about Susana was the shape of her cuts. They looked like… well. The old Nords used these kinds of curved blades when embalming their dead. I don't know who in Windhelm would even know about these blades, let alone have some on hand. Except me, of course, but none of mine are missing."_

"I promised Brunwulf that I would find the killer, when I first came to Windhelm. And even though I razed this city to the ground a month ago, these women are still getting slaughtered."

"And so you bring me to a rickety old house in the middle of the night."

"I must have missed something." The cat was erratic, leaping over things, looking under things, zipping across the room. The dark floorboards were still crusting with black blood, the walls still dingy and close. Even with the house empty, it felt crowding. Artan's wisps were bobbling about, but even their cheery glow didn't quell the feeling in his gut. This place was bad news. But Artan was adamant that there was something else. Something more.

The house smelt bad. Not all the rooms, but the stink was nearly everywhere. Artan was fumbling around in the back, where the stench was strongest. When his claws slipped around the wardrobe's handles, pulled its doors open, the stench really flooded out. He gagged, but Artan only flinched. Argis didn't want to know where Artan got his steel stomach from. He just hoped it wasn't experience. The back of the wardrobe slid open, and the thickened air became almost unbearable.

Artan stepped in, but Argis had to wait by the door. The cat perused the remains, tapped the altar, picked a shoddy journal from the ground; as well as pocketing a strange amulet. "Lets skate, Argis."

They had barely gotten outside into the fresh air when the commotion rushed past them, towards the main square. Argis looked to the Thane, who simply looked grim. The Bulwark led the way, to where the crowd was completely encompassing the doors to the temple of Talos, shrieking women and shouting men erupting in the typically quiet city. But even as the scene played out, it was almost funny how that the silent forms of Tova and Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, clutching their dead daughter, Nilsine.

* * *

The house was even creepier than the eerie Hjerim. The old man was blathering on about something, but Argis wasn't a fool. He saw the way Artan's spine straightened, hardened. His tail was stock still, coiled tightly against his leg. But his face still had that regular smile, his eyes still softly crinkled at the edges. He was still replying as if they were talking about Ysgrmor's spoon, or The Book of Fate. That they weren't really having a verbal battle about the murders of those women. "But please, I must get back to my other duties. You can come back any time for a tour of Calixto's Marvelous Curiosities!"

"That would be wonderful," Artan smiled, before with a cheerful, "Argis?" they left.

"He's a monster."

The Bulwark glanced at his thane, "What do you mean? Apart from those drapes in his house, the only thing I saw out of sorts was you."

The cat chuckled, "He's hiding something. Something big, bad and ugly. I don't know if its these murders, but he's definitely no innocent."

"Well he did say that-"

"You felt it in there," Artan looked to him, frowning. "It felt like-"

"When that dragon had me pinned."

"See? You felt it too. There's something in him, something not right."

"What's the plan?"

"Well," a shrug of the shoulders, tilt of the head, "his façade will break eventually. Its already fraying at the seams. We just have to be there to protect the civilians from the fallout."

"Even Rolff Stone-fist?"

"Even him, yes. Although, they do say that 85 percent of accidents happen at home."

* * *

Argis would have questioned why they were camped out in the shrubbery outside the White Phial, but he had long given up questioning Artan's logic. If he had it his way, they would have alerted the guards in the area and then done a stake out. He supposed that a heavy guard presence would scare away the murderer, but at the same time they would have witnesses to the crime. Otherwise, what was to say the guards would not just arrest them for killing the butcher, unknowing? Artan's tail twitched, hand already on his bow. _"You know, I have a bad feeling about this."_

_"Oh? How so?"_

_"I just get the feeling that-"_

"GET BACK HERE YA BLEEDIN' BOOT!"

A sudden burst of noise drew their attention, Artan motioning for Argis to stay. The blur whistled past, panting, crying, running. There were three of them running after her. Two of them were regulars at Candlehearth, and the last was the noisy drunkard that Artan beat up a few months ago. Shavee fell, landing in a shaking heap beside the molten basin of the forge, barely having enough sense to pull her hand away from the glowing coals. Her eyes were locked on the Nords advancing on her.

"Stealing my amulet like that, the nerve of you dirt-lickers is unbelievable!"

_Argis gripped his shoulder, tight enough to bruise. "we have to stop them."_

_Artan turned to him, profile clear in the light from the lanterns. "We cant. If we jump them now, the murderer might scarper."_

"_If we don't, they'll-"_

"_They won't."_

_Argis pressed his lips together. _

"It is my amulet! My friend got it back for me many moons ago! You cannot take it from me!" she was shaking, all over, her voice thick. When the two, yelling Argonians made it around the corner, stopping dead almost at the sight, Argis felt Artan's stance tighten. _"Fuck."_

"Get away from Shavee, human," the taller, green Argonian growled, low in his pale throat. Rolff laughed, heavy and deep with mead. "As if you can make me, boot." The shorter, greenish-brown Argonian stormed forwards, only the taller, Scouts-Many-Marshes, clawed hand on his arm made the other stop.

"We will go to the Jarl."

"Ha! Like they would take your word over mine. You have to remember, filth," a hand shot out, catching Shavee's wrist, hauling her upright. She writhed, but he pressed the tiny, silvery dagger into the underbelly of her throat, and she was stiller than the snowdrifts at their feet. "That no matter how many Imperial dogs you have at your back, the Nords will always be there to put you in your place."

"**Move that dagger on her and I will feed you your own fetid pelt, Nord."**

Heads turned, but it was too late. Argis had moved, thick arm taking out the shorter of the lackeys, shield cracking the skull of the other. But it was Artan's ridiculous, almost sickening retaliation to Shavee's treatment that made the struggling Nord drunk in Argis' arms scream. Even the taller, green Argonian gasped.

A paw flickered out, and in a crazed instance, the war-axe had knocked the hand holding the blade aside. The other paw drove a glass dagger into the arm holding Shavee. She fell to her knees between the men, as Artan hooked the curved lip of his war-axe around the man's neck, tugged him to be almost nose to nose, then driving that eerie green dagger into the junction between shoulder and neck. Artan didn't gag, didn't twitch as Rolff coughed out his lifeblood, even when the sticky wetness covered his face, smattered across his muzzle, absolutely drenched the sobbing Shavee. Artan didn't bother laying the man down. He ripped the dagger free, and with one of his steel-booted legs, kicked the nord straight into the forge's coalpit.

Shavee didn't hold back anymore. She screamed.

But what Argis didn't understand was how she clung to Artan, the man who just brutally murdered Rolff like it was picking jazbay grapes in a glade. "A-a-art-aannnn!"

"T'sokay Shavee. We got you now."

The two male Argonians stepped forward, and surprisingly settled on either side of the cat, knelt with Shavee in the snow. "Thank you for saving our Shavee-"

"You! Cat!"

The scene was broken, and heads snapped to the frail, pale Argonian stood beside the smithy sign. His face was contorted with irritation, dark eyes settled entirely on Artan, who smiled sheepishly back. "I want my fucking skooma."

"Shut the hell up Stands. This guy-"

"Neetrenaza, please. He's unwell. Can we just go home?"

"Yes, Shavee. Thank you again friend. Finding someone like you in such a cold and harsh land is like finding amethysts in the quagmires."

"Anytime. The Saxhleel and Khajiit are brothers in Skyrim. We gotta stick together."

"You know, I have never wanted to hug a mangy cat so much," Neetrenaza growled.

"Again? Really? After the last time and all those scratches, I'd have figured you'd give up on the kitty-folk."

Shavee actually laughed then, wiping her eyes and clutching at Scouts' shirt as he pulled her up to stand. "I almost forgot about that. Cleaning up the bunkhouse was absolutely terrible."

"Well, at least the guard was later than usual. Torbjorn is being incredibly thorough checking our rooms for the stolen crates. Imagine all the questions there would be if he walked in on that mess!"

"Trust me; I think that is a story that would make even Ulfric wet his frosty knickers."

"I don't want that image in my head, thank you honoured friend."

The nights got colder, and longer.

* * *

Argis was almost ready to tell Artan where to stuff his Thaneship, find another housecarl. They had been doing a stakeout every night for a month, and no murderer. He was about to voice said opinion when Artan sighed, "am I any different…?"

"What?"

"What difference is there between this crazy ass-hat and me? We both have blood on our hands. Way too much; some of it innocent. What is the difference between me and him? If any at all? What makes my masks and his masks any different? 'Cause we both know," the cat hissed, leaning in closer, "we both know that motherfucker is living in this town, pretending to be a cute citizen, meanwhile when the lights go out…"

Argis growled at him, "What mask, Artan? All I see is some deluded cat that thinks he's some criminal mastermind when in reality he's just a good kid that does stupid things-"

"I killed Nilsine."

"You… what?"

"When I disappeared, I didn't just disappear. Got picked up by the Brotherhood. They gave me a home, Argis. They didn't give a fuck if I had fur or what. They didn't look at me like I was some pond-scum looting their blind grandmother's house. They looked at me like I was a person. I started taking contracts, the same way I used to in Hammerfell, and it escalated. A creepy dead woman talked to me Argis! A dead lady! I'm scheduled to kill Vittoria Vicci next month for fucks sake. I am a paid killer, Argis!"

"Funny joke-"

"HELP ME!"

Artan moved, almost instantly, throat expanding in that telltale way, before the thu'um washed over the two struggling silhouettes. The woman, by the look of her golden palour she was the Altmer stable girl, fell to her knees under the strength of the shout, whereas the dark man behind her was thrown backwards, against the stone wall of the market.

The Nord wasted no time. His axe almost cut Calixto in half, but even then the old man's eyes terrified him. Even in his death throes, the old man was cursing him in old tongues. In the end, slowly trudging towards Candlehearth Hall, Scouts-Many-Marshes intercepted them. They spent the night in the warm if cramped Assemblage.

* * *

The ginger man was a burden. A funny, loud, smelly one, but a burden none the less. Artan slammed the door shut, barely able to contain his surprise as he walked in on the scene. At first he thought they were getting amorous. And then he saw the weapons; a vase, and what looked to be what was left of a broom.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Calder and Argis were focused on each other, neither sparing a glance to Artan, bemused in the doorway. Argis snarled out, through his teeth, "We are having a debate." Calder just growled in affirmation, and Artan simply shrugged their stupid off. "Just don't break our stuff."

The two snapped towards him, "Our stuff?"

Artan glanced at them, hefting up the gildar cheese wheel while he stared at them; the infamous 'what in then blazes are you doing now?' stare. He put the thing in the pot, the whole thing, as well as three bottles of what looked to be ale, and a suspicious white powder. "Yes. We share our things here. My things are your things to a point. I do not share underwear, toiletries or partners."

He turned from them, and that was the end of the conversation.

* * *

That wasn't the end of the conversation.

The house was a fucking mess when he came back from the pub, and the screaming, fighting, brawling men were rolling around in the shards of table, grabbing hair, calling names, weapons long forgotten amongst the dust and debris of their "good vs evil" showdown of the mega important 'Stuff' quarrel. Artan did what he always did when there was a good fight going on.

The blonde and redhead sat up, staring bewildered at the feline, sat leisurely on a wooden stool that they hadn't broken, five bottles of wine at his feet and one already half gone in his hand. "Problem?"

"You just threw cooking oil on us."

Artan quirked an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"What the hell?"

The cat frowned, "Well this couldn't get more ridiculous if it was wearing a smore hat, got naked and fucked its best friend at a drunken orgy. But hell. If you guys want to fight about something stupid, _that you still haven't told me about yet_, then better do it in the right way. The way to show how ridiculous you're being. Hence the oil."

The two looked away from him, and if he didn't know any better, he would have said they were slightly flushed. He guessed the wine was already working her magic on him. It didn't matter much. But when he decided to return to Markarth with Argis, something changed in the atmosphere. Calder seemed to deflate, and Argis seemed to puff up. It was much like watching parrots.

"Don't worry Calder. I will be backing a few months, and we can go on an adventure."

He tried to placate the redhead, and it seemed to work, until he glanced at Argis, who seemed to sour at that. Must be a Nord thing.

* * *

Argis was sitting quietly, reading over a sweet-roll.

Vindrell Hall was silent, except for the crackle of the fireplace, the hiss of the logs, the munching Argis. Then the waft of mead flooded his senses. His eyes flickered up, and Artan stopped dead. He was crawling, silently, across the table. His eyes were dilated, almost to the point were they were entirely black. His mouth was pursed, and his ears perked like a kittens. His tail was taut, and for a moment, he looked a lot like a cat caught by an owner doing something ridiculous.

Artan was clad in his dark red-black armour, hood long gone. His boots and gloves littering the ground, making a path between Argis and the window. Stupid cat. The big Nord smiled slightly. Even as Artan grinned back, lopsided and totally plastered, Argis wondered how in the world such a drunk could get into a house without even making the slightest noise. It was mildly terrifying, almost making Argis think back to the cat's confession in Windhelm, but at the same time it was oddly endearing. But when Argis put together the concept of Artan stalking him like prey, a small part of him quailed. But the bigger part of him found it oddly… arousing. Especially in that tight armour.

Especially when he was crawling across the kitchen table.

Just like that.

Argis caught him just as he was about to twist his way past the huge candlestick centrepiece, hands carefully pressing between plates, avoiding soups and bowls. And as Argis watched, Artan's interest waned. He had been caught, and he wasn't being scolded for being on the table. He did what all cats did. He pushed his luck, tested the boundaries. Teased.

Still silent, he arched his back like a cat would before stretching out on his belly, fingers spread out and gently clawing the tabletop, ass still waving high in the air, tail rolling and coiling fluidly from the base of his spine. Then he slowly, but surely, edged forwards. Until he was maybe an arm length away, eyes brightening, "what are you reading?"

Argis smiled as the cat's blurry vision didn't let him see the cover, "The Lusty Argonian Maid. The verse is actually quite well written."

The cat-man giggled -actually _giggled_- and leant off the edge of the table, towards Argis, and over the lip of the book to see its pages. He couldn't see a single word, just an ugly sluggish worm, but that wasn't the point. "Who knew I had such a raunchy little Bulwark?"

The cat whipped its head towards Argis, and where he had leant to look at the book, he was almost touching noses with the Nord. "Do I not keep you busy enough, Argis?"

By the mottled vermillion Argis goes, Artan guessed he kept his housecarl very busy indeed. He doesn't let this revelation affect his face. He hoods his eyes a little, lets a smile melt across his face, an eyebrow quirk. Tiny things. Doctor the face, make them believe the lie. Don't let them know how you're feeling. Recently, Artan would use this, use his body, use his smile, get people into a corner, and then leave them a molten mess in the morning. Usually, he used this to satisfy needs, and that was it. He would use it to get a bed partner, he would use it to calm down prey, and he would use it to get information.

This time, he used it to hide the fucking butterflies in his guts.

If he was younger, he wouldn't be doing this. Not to someone he actually liked. Even drunk off his ass. He would be in the other corner, blushing under his fur, until Argis said goodnight and they both went to sleep across the hall from each other. Then he would spend his night with Mr. Right Hand. But the different form of assassin training, the run with the Legion, it made him better at hiding his crippling shyness. Kinda hard to be shy when you're in a set of barracks that lets everyone hear you shit. He thanked Stendarr that it had only lasted a week before the ground rent for the Hall was put down. It was why he didn't **talk** so much, why he just talked shit and hid when emotions got involved. It took a lot for him to stand up and be counted.

But right now? He could always blame it on the drink.

He leant in. The assassin in him said Argis gasped. Minutely. That he was crushing the remains of his sweet roll in a Nordic fist. A rough tongue lathed a stubbly chin, licking a thick stripe up to the base of the Nord's earlobe. A clawed hand pressed against Argis' windpipe, and as Artan breathed down on him, licking his black mouth. "You had some icing… on your face."

The Nord didn't reply.

Two large hands startled Artan, they gripped each of his hips, and despite the rage his inner assassin was in, he hummed and leant into the touch. Argis ran a hand up his spine, and when his big hand clasped around the base of his neck, the Nord tugged him forwards. It wasn't as harsh, nor as 'lets tear our clothes off and rut in the forest' as Artan thought it would be. He had opened his eyes.

The Nord was staring at him with those eyes. They had seen so much blood, so many battles, and countless amounts of gore. One was blue, and the other a milky white with blindness. But they were soft. Even the scar tissue around his blind eye was wrinkling softly. "You're drunk."

Artan frowned. It was deep, dark and Argis felt a sad smile form on his face.

"You're an idiot."

Then he pushed his cat body against Argis, rubbing his furry head into the crook of the Nord's neck, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, one leg draping around a hip and the other snaking between thick Nord thighs. The yawn shook them both, and in a moment, the cat was asleep, purring in rhythm with the hand stroking along its scalp. Argis once again thanked whatever god was listening that the cat was so vulnerable to an ear-scratch.

* * *

Artan appeared from his room the next evening, eyes like dark stones in his head, fur lank and furred blankets dragging behind him like funeral palls. He slumped at the table, groaning, hissing, and almost breaking the sound barrier with his whining. Apparently the ridiculousness the night before was forgotten, because the feline didn't mention anything. Didn't act any different. But he did look at Argis more often, and always when it seemed that the Bulwark wasn't looking back, or less likely to notice.

He tried not to give himself false hope. Kept putting it down to the booze.

he traipsed into his small room, where he shrugged out of the iron armour his father made for him, and pulled on the steel plated armour Artan had gotten him. The boots, gloves, and what looked to be a horned helmet that only covered him to the jaw line, a heavy silky fabric covering his throat, full of mesh. It was comfy enough, but when looking in the mirror, he looked sleek, intimidating, and overall not himself.

He was intimidating in a blocky way, and this was very different to what he was used to.

He sighed, and went to move to the front door of the home, waiting patiently for the crazy cat to be ready. They were going to Solitude so Artan could put down the rest of the money for the new house, as well as meet his latest housecarl. Argis felt a little twinge at that. It might mean he would get more time off, and he guessed he should be happy.

So why did the thought of Artan having _another_ new housecarl bother him?

Or was it the fact that they would arrive in time for Vittoria's wedding?

He growled at himself, half-heartedly returning the warm greeting the cat gave him, clad in his Imperial leathers. Artan said it was to make him a little less conspicuous, in a town full of people who all owed him stuff. As if the short skirt was camouflage, Argis frowned. A small part of him suggested that Artan put that armour on for him. Another part said that old habits die hard. That and Artan had more sets of armour than individual hairs on his body.

It was just a coincidence that he decided to pick Argis' favourite armour.

Coincidence. Yes.

* * *

Argis almost died the first time he saw it, almost had a heart attack.

It was a tiny golden thing, on a shiny string hung around the Thane's neck. Artan obviously didn't know what it was. The Bulwark wasn't surprised. The Khajiit was incredibly new to Skyrim, and didn't know the culture very well. Nor did he know much about Mara, it seemed. The cat seemed to feel the eyes, because he turned to look at his housecarl. "What?"

Argis bit back a laugh, and shrugged, "I think we should hit Solitude before nightfall, My Thane." Artan rolled his eyes, as he always did when he was called Thane. The word was enough to make him retreat towards his dark horse. Still that thing creeped him out, but Artan was loathe to part with the beast. He said it was a gift from a dear friend. Argis didn't argue. The way Artan couldn't look him in the face, and the way his voice grew harder, the Nord knew not to press the issue.

They got to Solitude in the afternoon, the Thane being greeted by a myriad of happy citizens. Argis only got to travel with Artan for a few months before, and then he was left in Markarth for a month to get over a minor injury. Artan blew it out of proportion, and got a completely new servant in to wait on Argis hand and foot for a week to keep him from getting up and putting weight on the leg. He didn't know how busy the Khajiit was on his trip to Solitude. Until now.

Eventually the small crowd dissipated, and Argis was still waiting for one of them to spot the amulet.

It was a beautiful moment when one did.

"Oh my."

"Noster, what's wrong?"

"Oh nothing my boy. It just surprises me that a strapping young man like you isn't taken already."

Artan practically froze, halfway into making a sympathetic smile to whatever ailment the old man was going to say. Then his kitty eyes widened, his tail puffed up and his ears twitched. "I'm... sorry?"

The old man smiled, taking a step closer, "that's quite alright my boy. I guess that just means you're available to be swept off your feet."

Argis could almost feel the cat hyperventilate. When the codger leant in and whispered in an erect, conical ear the khajiit shrieked, leapt backwards and ran the other way. Citizens leapt out of the sprinting Thane's path, sending fearful glances at Argis before they worriedly went back to their lives. And so began Argis' quest. To find the terrified Thane.

"Don't take it to heart; he doesn't understand what the amulet means."

The old man broke his pained stare to look to Argis, brightening slightly, "Thank you, my boy."

It took the Nord three hours to track Artan to a small bush beside the temple of the Divines. The world was dark by then, and Argis had to make a small mage-light to walk by. The bush was quivering, noticeably so, and the Bulwark zeroed in on it swiftly. He was silent when he pulled the branches back, revealing the wide-eyed feline underneath the leaves. The cat was freaking out, and had a shoe missing, as well as his hat. "Argis. The women. And the men. They wouldn't stop asking me to sleep with them, carry their children_, __**marry them**_… what's happening to me? I knew money made friends, but I didn't know this would happen. I gave all the money in my pockets to the beggars, but it carried on happening!"

"Artan. Get up; we need to get you back to the house. I already gave the money to Falkbeard. It's good you get me to carry everything, yeah? We can have a few sweet rolls, some wine and I'll explain everything."

The cat seemed to understand, because he let Argis haul him upright. He seemed to sour after that, barely answering Argis' questions. He only spoke in riddles, or short snappy comments. If he wasn't staring sadly at the cloudy sky, that is.

Proudspire was warm when they got there. The Shieldmaiden was out, obviously at the pub. Argis sat the Thane down in one of the oaken chairs in the dining room, even going so far as to pat his head in an attempt to comfort the obviously shaken male. Artan did something that made Argis stop breathing. It was a low, throaty purr. The bulwark coughed and slumped in a chair beside Artan, clinked clay bottles of wine together, and the pair drank deeply.

"The amulet you got off of that corpse is symbolic. In Elseweyr, it might be some pretty jewellery. In Skyrim it is a sign that someone is looking for courting, commitment, and marriage. That's why people were throwing themselves at you."

"They want a thane husband," Artan sneered, "And because I am a khajiit, they all think themselves the best of what I can get."

The Bulwark growled, "You are better than any of them, Artan. You just need to see it in yourself." The blonde shook his head when Artan gave him a pointed stare, "People are always looking for something great to find them and see the greatness in them. They all want someone special like you to find them special too, pick them out of the crowd and show the world how silly it was to overlook them. It's selfish and crazy, but some need validation like that. They can't go and get it themselves, so they make someone else do it for them. _Everyone_ wants someone amazing to love them. Even if it's just their own opinion, or that one is actually amazing. Everyone thinks they deserve the best."

"Some people just prefer to work for it."

"Indeed."

"What if the past stops you?"

"Things change Artan. If they didn't, the world would grow stagnant. Everyone has the potential to grow, regardless of what they did in the past."

"Even a murderer?"

"How many lives have you saved by killing one person? Like what happened with Ulfric?"

Artan smiled, tight. "Ten. Children. From an old crone who ran their orphanage."

Argis didn't take that sip of wine. He stopped stock still, staring at Artan's face, looking, searching for a lie. A hint of a lie. Its tail. He found no hide nor hair of a lie. It had been a real confession in Windhelm. It wasn't a stupid joke. Artan was an assassin. "You… killed Grelod? In Riften?"

"Yes. And Arnuriel, the huntsman. And Narfi, the old beggar. And Nilsine. For no other reason than I got paid for it," Artan smiled, a cold, hard line on his face. "It paid for this house, and the others."

"What else?"

"That's it. Just helped me get the ground rent down. Our armour is bought using treasure I find, or money I take from dungeons or caves."

Argis let out a short breath.

"Why?"

"It was an accident. Some kid asked me to kill her to save his friends, that she was a monster. She was a monster. So I did it. And the brotherhood leader finds me, drugs me, and takes me to a cabin. Tells me to kill one of the three bound and blindfolded people in the cabin. Kill the one who has the hit out on them. I killed all three. She gave me a destination. At first I didn't know what to think. And then I found myself in a family," Artan shrugged.

Argis grimaced, "I can understand that. But why are you still with them? You were already with the Imperials right? Couldn't they give you the family that you wanted?" The cat seemed to shy away from that question, seeming to sink further into his fur. If Argis didn't know any better he would have suggested the Thane was a mottled pink under all that fluff.

"Uhhhh. I joined the Imperials for a good few reasons. But the Brotherhood always catered for me better."

"Why did you join? You're working your way through the different holds, trying to instil peace. Then there was that business with Alduin. How can you do something so great and then something so despicable in the same month? How can you work with the Empire to try and unify Skyrim and then in the same month destroy that work? For money?"

"I joined the Imperials because of my tail."

"You what?"

The cat didn't answer. He was staring at his clenched paws, feet shuffling, grinding into the wooden floor underneath him. The fluffy tail was thrashing, as were his conical ears, eyes skittering through the room, pointedly avoiding Argis. Claws tenderised the wood on the table, the chair, the leather-bound sheath on the table. Eventually, he answered.

"I joined the Imperials because they didn't really mind about the tail. When I went to Windhelm, I had to forcibly stop myself from going on a widespread killing spree. They disgusted me, with every slur and every look they cast my way. They keep any other race than Nord under their boot, using their religious dogma as justification. Talos was a man, a great man, but just a man none the less. He was made a God the same way all the other Gods were, and to be honest, I am quite the believer in changing fate, and the strength that ordinary people have. And that is what Talos is a symbol of; the power of the ordinary man. But using him as a shield to hide behind so a minority can brutalise people they do not like? Because of a few extra scales, some pointy ears or simply because of a _tail_?" the cat shook his head.

"Nords can be some of the most beautiful, powerful destructive forces that roam Tamriel, but they can also be incredibly closed minded, harsh, and huge bigots. But hey. They can also be incredibly loyal allies," Artan turned to the Bulwark, almost conspiratorially, "unless you have a tail. Then you have to trick them, blackmail them, or simply bewitch them. Because if they even look at someone who isn't human with anything but distain, well, it makes Talos cry."

Artan snatched the bottle of wine from the table, and in a show of pure determination, downed a good half of the bottle. Argis had half the mind to take the bottle off him, but the small voice in his head was saying no. let him drink. Let him talk. He never talks, not like this. He never expresses his thoughts, not his real thoughts. Witty, inappropriate rants, yes, but not actual emotions. The cat patted his arm, a bit like an old fishwife would tap her friend before telling her the latest gossip.

"I understand that I am not perfect. But by the Sands! All they ever see is a tail, and some fur, and some claws, and they see a thief. A murderer. Maybe just a fun fuck. Nothing good. Never, oh my it's the Thane of Whiterun! Never, Oh gee Samara, it's the Archmage!" The cat shook his head, and in a moment that Argis didn't really understand, the Bulwark slapped a hand to the feline's knee.

"I used to think that, too."

Artan smirked, eyebrows twisting, "What? Fun fuck?"

Argis gave him a pointed look before he continued, "but then you are full of surprises, Artan. I never had any real opinion of Khajiit, or Argonians, or Elves. I never really cared, because well. Never had a reason to. I nothing'ed them. Didn't hate, didn't like. I heard a lot of stories about khajiit thieves, Argonian pirates, elvish pariahs slaughtering pilgrims. I guess it does colour opinions. And then I met you, you furred freak."

The cat fluffed a little at that, until he saw the strange, small smile on the Bulwarks face.

"And well, you have been proving me wrong since day one. You are not a bad kitty, Artan. You are just simply trying to get by. Mostly." Argis patted the Thane's thigh again, "You have proved many, many Nords wrong. And maybe one day, they will change. But-"

"You said they."

"Wha?"

"You said they. Like you weren't a Nord. Like you were talking about a ridiculous drunken cousin that you see at family parties."

Argis blinked, fully aware that Artan was leaning forwards now, eyes intent, tail flickering, ears perked.

"Hm. Maybe I did."

The cat cocked his head, "Well, even though you are a very confused Nord that doesn't know he is a Nord, I am still glad I have one of you on my side."

"You have Lydia too, remember."

"Ah yes. The Ice Princess, the Queen of the Winter Plains. The President of the Arctic Tundras."

"Gee. If that's how you talk about her what do you say about me?"

The cat sucked in and choked on the wine bottle, completely disarming Argis and making such a fuss over coughing and spluttering, that the question was forgotten. When things quietened down, a short, quipping remark about a gag reflex was made, and the ridiculous mess started again.

"But why the brotherhood?"

Artan winced, looked away. "After I jumped the border here and survived Helgen with Hadvar, I decided I needed to get in somewhere. I needed someone to protect, and someone to protect me. My old guild in Hammerfell sold me out to the Alik'r, and I spent the better part of five years running from both of them. I might have accidentally given the Alik'r sensitive information about the guild, and well the guild is what told the Alik'r I was the assassin they wanted. The Brotherhood was an unexpected blessing. It was a job I knew well, and in a strange turn I had a family as well. Each one weirder than the last. It didn't matter what race I was, they had a werewolf and a vampire! The mage there could turn a man inside out at whim! A tail was nothing; for the first time in a long time, I was seen as regular, run of the mill. They didn't judge me for anything; except my kills. They praise my name to Sithis, the Nightmother, anybody."

"It was as if for the first time, my skill was actually being considered. It wasn't, oh look a cat with a butterknife, or oh wow look at the kitty trying to conjure a wisp. It was 'Artan, our brother.'" The cat shrugged. "It's a stupid idea. I should have gotten in with the companions, become a hero. But hell. You gotta stick to what you know. And debauchery and murder is all I know."

"That's fucking stupid."

The cat grimaced.

"You're a good kitty Artan. You show that with most things you do. You just slip between good things and bad things sometimes. Very bad things. But you aren't evil. You are… complicated. But don't write yourself off so fast. You have slain Alduin! You eat dragon souls! You ended the civil war! Everybody has a dark side, and this is yours. But you don't let it control you," Argis patted the leg closest to him, "and that's the difference between you and a common murderer."

Artan laughed, sharp and quick.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Nord."

"Good to know, puss-puss."


End file.
